


Live and Let Die

by aliatori



Series: From Insomnia with Love [2]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - James Bond Fusion, Blood and Violence, Car Sex, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Shooting Guns, we call it bond!AU but really its more like Saints Row meets FFXV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 17:46:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16123595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliatori/pseuds/aliatori
Summary: If President Camelia Claustra is the face of Insomnia, the Lucis Caelums are the backbone and the Amicitias the muscle, ruling the city with iron control.  In the midst of a period of peace and prosperity, Noctis endeavors to clean up his family’s image, his bodyguard and escort Gladio at his side.The Izunias have other plans.





	Live and Let Die

**Author's Note:**

> A big thanks to [chiii](https://twitter.com/chi_peppers) for letting me collaborate with her in this AU and to [roadsoftrial](https://archiveofourown.org/users/roadsoftrial/pseuds/roadsoftrial) for her contributions (and for letting me stress).
> 
> Written for Gladnoct Week, day 6: bodyguard.

“Better not mix that too strong.”

Noctis scoffs and tips the bottle of rum a little further—the amber liquid that glugs out in sporadic measures evokes the colour of Gladio’s eyes—to make a point.

“I can hold my liquor, thanks.”

A low, amused chuckle comes from Gladio’s direction, drawing Noctis’s gaze. He’s spread out kitty-corner from Noctis’s own position, arms stretched along the back of the premium leather seats, legs spread equally wide. He always does this, taking up as much space as humanly possible, making sure all eyes are on him, from the red-bottomed heels of his boots to the angular sweep of hair over the shaved sides of his head. It’s part of the act, sure, but Noctis has known him long enough to be absolutely certain he _enjoys_ it, too.

“You’re staring.” Gladio’s slow, sensual smirk as he makes the accusation quickens Noctis’ pulse. The cream jumpsuit Gladio wears matches the colour of Noctis’s suit exactly, down to the black, patterned accents of the fabric that mirror the black of Noctis’s dress shirt. Of course, in the blue tinged lighting of the limo’s interior, every object is washed in sapphire. 

“So what if I am? You’re on retainer tonight. In every sense of the word.” After mixing cola with the expensive rum—regular this time, thank the Astrals, not diet—Noctis settles back to his own seat, legs crossed, and takes a long drink from the glass in his hand.

“So I am,” Gladio agrees mildly, winking one smoky eye in Noctis’ direction. “Not that it’s stopped us before.”

Gladio has him there. 

It’s past rush hour, but the art gallery hosting Madame President’s fundraiser is situated on the opposite side of the city, so they have a long ride ahead of them. Even through the tinted windows of the limo, Noctis can see the city lights whizzing by in a multicoloured blur, soothing and familiar.

“Any updates before we head in?” Noctis asks, feigning disinterest as he swirls his glass, ice clinking delicately against the sides of the vessel.

The upper echelon of Insomnia—and the lower, thanks to the tabloids—might know Gladio as his escort and lover, but he’s nothing if not professional in his actual role of bodyguard, so Noctis isn’t surprised when he produces his phone, unlocks it, and begins to tap around the screen. “Nothing new. Mother and Iris are already at the venue. We’ll be fashionably late, as usual… give the paparazzi enough time to assemble. Iggy says he, Regis, and Dad are good, so we just have to bid on some art and survive the evening.”

“Easy enough.”

“You need to bring your A game, Noct. With the Izunias active again, combined with the tip—”

“I _know_ , Gladio,” Noctis snaps. After a deep breath and drink, he softens his tone, finding Gladio’s gaze and latching onto it. “After all, that’s why you’re here, right?”

“It is, but it’s been a while since we’ve dealt with any real heat. Better to be over prepared than under… especially since we’ll be in the shit if anything breaks out under Camelia’s watch.”

“ _Camelia_. Awfully familiar,” Noctis drawls.

“She likes it, actually. Appreciates the direct approach. Like me,” Gladio says with another grin.

“What is it Dad’s always fond of saying? Fight your battles with words first and guns second.”

“Something like that,” Gladio says noncommittally. There’s a sly glint in his eyes, accentuated by expensive cosmetics Noct still can’t name after all these years. “Though I’d prefer if you left the guns to me.”

“Don’t worry… I plan on it. I mean, I hope we don’t need them at all, but…” Noctis lifts one shoulder in a lackadaisical shrug and takes another sip of his drink. A nebulous thought crosses his mind, one he decides to voice. “We’ve been to the the Dawnlight Gallery before, haven’t we?”

“Once,” Gladio confirms, pausing to drink from the bottle of imported beer he holds, tiny in comparison to the size of his hands. “For Iris’ birthday a couple years back. They had some art nouveau fashion shit she wanted to see.”

“Right.” Noctis draws out the ‘i’, making it a several second long affair. “That’s it.”

They lapse into companionable silence for a time. Noctis expected to be more nervous about attending Madame President’s art auction, especially with Izunia members possibly in attendance, but the first tentative threads of adrenaline wind through him, weaving a sense of excitement that settles like a web across his skin. He excels at playing the role of squeaky clean heir—attending charity fundraisers, agreeing to photo ops, generous donations to schools and other community organizations—but he’s not opposed to the grittier side of the Lucis Caelum life, either. Gritty is relative these days compared to his family’s prior… illegitimate activities, but there’s always a line to be skirted, a boundary to test. 

“Gil for your thoughts?”

The bass rumble of Gladio’s voice nudges Noctis from his idle musings. The adrenaline transmutes as he drinks Gladio in. Noctis’s eye follows the dark, lacy, floral lines of his tattoo, lines that stand in stark contrast to the cream of his jumper, to the exposed ‘v’ of light brown skin from neck to navel, draped in delicate, black jewelry. His blood stirs in a different way altogether, making his head swim in a way that has nothing to do with the rum.

“I was thinking…” Noctis begins, tone calculated and innocent, “that we have almost an hour until we arrive at the gallery.” Once he finishes speaking, he drains his glass and sets his drink on the polished marble of the limo’s bar, right next to Gladio’s abandoned bottle. All it takes is one smooth slide across the leather seats, then he’s pressed along Gladio’s side; one muscled arm winds around Noctis’s shoulders, pulling him closer, and on a whim, Noctis leans in and mouths at Gladio’s neck, tasting the clean salt of his skin.

“Shoulda known,” Gladio remarks, but he sounds more amused than annoyed, giving a breathy sigh as Noctis suckles at the skin of his neck—not hard enough to leave a bruise, not with them about to be in the public eye, but nearly.

Noctis _is_ curious about one thing, so he lets his hands roam across Gladio’s body, the muscled planes of him warm underneath the silken fabric of his jumper, heat pooling in his groin. After a few moments of exploratory touches, his fingers brush against the hard outline of a gun, cleverly tucked and strapped to the inside of Gladio’s outfit. He reaches for Gladio’s cheek with the other hand, skin unbearably soft and smooth beneath his palm, turning Gladio’s face towards him.

“The revolver, huh? If you’re expecting trouble, you must not be expecting much. Seven shots isn’t a lot,” Noctis speculates, moving his hand from the gun to the inside of Gladio’s thigh, the tips of his fingers tantalisingly close to what Noctis wants. He’s hard, beginning to strain against the tight, tailored trousers of his suit, but he’s not in a rush.

Yet.

“Seven is all I’ll need,” Gladio murmurs, right before placing his lips against Noctis’s. After one chaste kiss, he starts to tease Noctis with little flicks of his tongue, pulling back before either of them can deepen the kiss in earnest—as much as it frustrates him, it turns Noctis on too, his cock twitching where it’s trapped beneath a suit that cost him thousands of gil.

Noctis reaches behind him and flips the switch to raise the divider between the passenger and driver sides, which raises with a smooth, mechanical whir. Gladio has his music playing, something bass heavy and alternative that Noctis doesn’t recognize, but it’ll do for now. He lets his hand slide up Gladio’s thigh to cup him through the jumper, gratified to find Gladio’s thick, heavy cock half hard in his hand. Noctis runs his palm up and down the length of it a few times, firm strokes that draw a debauched moan from Gladio.

He’s always overly loud with Noctis, probably because Noctis likes it that way—and because Gladio loves to put on a show—but he’s certainly not going to complain.

“You know,” Noctis murmurs against Gladio’s mouth, running his hand along the shaved side of his head even as he squeezes Gladio’s cock in the other, “you don’t have to play the role of escort yet.”

“Who says I’m playing at anything?” Gladio fires back, nipping at Noctis’s lower lip in a sharp flash of teeth. Then, in a low purr that makes Noctis ache from cock to belly, he continues, “what do you want? Aside from me.”

Noctis laughs, quiet and sharp, and gives Gladio another firm squeeze for emphasis. “This. If I can figure out how to get you out of this damn outfit.”

“I can help with that,” Gladio says, amber eyes dark with desire. He begins to shrug out of the black-accented jumpsuit, one shoulder first, then the other, exposing every inch of chiseled muscle and delicately tattooed skin, flowers and lace blossoming across his arms and chest. Despite all the years they’ve been together, first as friends and then as recurring lovers, Gladio’s sex appeal still manages to catch him off guard. It’s a practiced act, each expression calculated, each angle considered, but it’s effective, holding Noctis’s gaze like a steel trap as Gladio goes through the motions. When Gladio lifts his hips to pull down his jumpsuit and underwear enough to expose his cock, hard and flushed and beaded with precome, Noctis’s mouth waters.

Noctis slides to his knees, slotting himself between Gladio’s thighs, and looks up at Gladio. “Seems like you want this as bad as I do.”

“Can you blame me?” Gladio asks with a wink and a sinuous roll of his hips. “Ain’t often you’re willing to put in some work.”

Noctis rolls his eyes, but he still reaches for Gladio, taking his cock in hand and gently easing back his foreskin, spreading a bead of precome around with his thumb. Noctis leans forward and allows his mouth to rest lightly against the soft, hot skin of Gladio’s hardness before speaking. “You’ll get your turn, I’m sure. Until then… don’t mess up my hair.”

Gladio laughs at Noctis’s warning, a laugh that blurs into a drawn out, wanton moan as Noctis takes the head of Gladio’s cock between his lips, licking salty droplets from the slit. “Then you’d better swallow, Princess, ‘cause I don’t want any stains on my outfit.”

“We’ll see.”

* * *

When Noctis steps out of the limo, he’s backlit by a hundred camera flashes at once. Gladio chuckles to himself when Noctis extends a hand to him, the black diamonds in his watch sparkling from the light of the cameras, one eyebrow raised as if to say— _what are you waiting for_?

Patience is a virtue. For other people, anyway.

Gladio accepts Noctis’s hand, warm and firm. He has to duck his head to clear the limo, but the little grin and the way he turns his face from the cameras—and towards Noctis—lends the gesture a degree of shy flirtatiousness. Stepping out of the limo means stepping into a role Gladio’s all too familiar with, and he feels it settle over his skin like expensive Tenebraen silk.

He can tell Noctis has turned it on, playing the part of luxuriously wealthy Lucis Caelum heir in every sense of the word. His blue-black hair is slicked back tonight, a rare look for him, but Gladio appreciates the way it exposes more of his face, in particular his eyes. It’s a kind of dance, entering a venue under the scrutiny of the press, but it’s one that Gladio and Noctis both know the steps too. A smile here, a stop here, a pause to shake a couple hands, and then continuing on the way. The paparazzi and the public both believe Noctis pays for the privilege of Gladio’s company—a privilege that doesn’t end when an event does—and while it has some truth to that, the whole truth is more complicated than the gossip mags can imagine.

He places a hand between Noctis’s shoulder blades, the gorgeous cream fabric delightfully smooth underneath his palm, and leans in. “You wanna try a little harder to act like you’re in love with me?” Gladio murmurs in a low voice, his lips nearly brushing Noctis’s ear, its lobe decorated with a studded, black diamond earring.

Noctis meets Gladio’s gaze, twilight eyes glittering with the long running inside joke. His smile softens and takes on a more romantic edge—a sharp contrast to the filthy acts they were involved in twenty minutes ago. Just as Gladio’s about to thank him for his cooperation, he speaks. “Who says it’s an act?” he asks, an impish lilt to his voice.

“Now…” Gladio begins, letting his hand dip in an intimate slide down Noctis’s spine until it rests on the small of his back, sultry grin never faltering, “you’re being difficult.”

“Am I?” Noctis’s words are quiet and stripped of their teasing tone, challenge lurking in the deep blue of his eyes. “Well, you’d know.”

“I would.”

Gladio doesn’t press the issue further—not the time or place, even if he wanted to, and he does—and lingers next to Noctis for a few more mouthfuls of pleasantries exchanged with members of the public. After a formality of an examination by two black uniformed guards, they’re finally inside the first floor of the Dawnlight Gallery. 

From a security standpoint, it could be better and it could be worse. Having the gallery itself split across four floors isn’t ideal, but the minimalist, open concept design leaves relatively little room for any unwanted surprises. Gladio keeps one hand in the crook of Noctis’s elbow and his expression neutral as he scans the room, committing the entrances and exits to memory. Aside from one elevator, gold doors polished to a perfect sheen, there’s a spiral staircase in one corner that goes between the floors, and two emergency stairwells in case of fire—gun or otherwise, Gladio thinks with a grin.

The auction itself will be held on the top floor, with an afterparty on the rooftop of the building, but he and Noctis won’t be staying for it. Cutting a cheque—figuratively, that is, since the actual payment transfer happens electronically—for a couple pieces of art and leaving in one piece would be more than sufficient for the evening. Five to six zeros should get one Camelia Claustra, President of Lucis, enough funds to accomplish a task on her political agenda, and add another notch to Noctis’s charity bedpost on top of it all.

“Now who’s being inattentive?” Noctis asks, and though he keeps his timbre light, there’s a hint of the demanding lover Gladio knows behind closed doors.

“Just doing my job.” 

“Which one?”

“Don’t be dense,” Gladio says quietly. Louder, he continues, “if you want to make the rounds, I’ll keep myself occupied.” He adds an over-the-top bat of his eyelashes at Noctis, simpering, and gets the eye roll he was hoping for in return.

“Stay out of trouble.” Noctis already wears his bland, inoffensive diplomacy face, surveying the milling crowd with a dispassionate glance.

“Isn’t that my line?”

“Sometimes.” There it is, a glimpse of the Noctis he loves in a fleeting, secret grin, before it fades back into obscurity.

With Noctis heading towards some unknown objective, there’s nothing left for Gladio to do but mingle, which suits his purposes fine. Before he and Noctis got… distracted… in the limo ride, he reviewed the profiles of known Izunia associates in preparation for the evening’s event. So far, the coast is clear, but they weren’t the only ones to arrive late, which means Gladio has every plan to keep his eyes peeled throughout the auction.

A soft classical song pipes through cleverly hidden speakers—Debussy, maybe, but his mother would know for sure—as guests circulate the lobby. Employees in white shirts and black vests circumnavigate the room brandishing trays of effervescent champagne flutes, which Gladio ignores, being on duty and all. 

“This is late even for you, Gladdy.”

“I thought I was right on time.” He turns to find Iris standing behind him, clutch dangling from her fingers, fingers decorated in a series of heavily jeweled, topaz rings. At a glance, they could be taken for just another statement piece, but the clutch covers the rounded grip that wraps around across Iris’s palm.

“You know you can fasten that closed, right?” Iris asks, pointing with her free hand to the skin exposed by Gladio’s open jumpsuit.

“Saw the buttons. Decided against it,” Gladio says, bending down and dropping a light kiss on Iris’s cheek. “I like the eyeshadow—orange, bold choice. The embroidered irises are a nice touch too.”

“Thanks. I figured the makeup would balance out all this black.” Iris sweeps her hand down the length of her cocktail dress. “You made it here okay?”

Gladio nods twice, an acknowledgement of subsurface meaning to Iris’s question. It’s a polite, nondescript way of asking if they had any trouble of the Izunia sort on the way. “Traffic was great.”

“Good.” Iris pauses, shifts her weight to one hip, and offers Gladio a devilish grin, the textured fringe of her bangs just barely avoiding her eyes. “Well, I’ll find you if I need anything. Better go say hi to mom too.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going,” Gladio says with an easy grin.

Scanning the room, Gladio notes Noctis’s position. He’s making conversation with a broad shouldered musician he recognizes from previous engagements—Timothy, if his memory serves correct—and both of them wear friendly smiles. His companion, while dressed to the nines and impeccably made up, seems more bored than engaged, and she catches Gladio’s gaze from across the room. It roves down his body, lingering on the exposed skin of his chest and stomach, before roaming back upwards, her smile concealing an edge like the sheath of a knife.

It doesn’t stop Gladio from posing a bit before he continues on his rounds, though, and her lips curve into a sinfully wicked smile.

Maybe another time, he thinks, committing her face to memory.

With Noctis either in plain sight or in his peripheral vision, Gladio circulates the room, acknowledging those he recognizes from his tenure as Noctis’s escort. It takes him a while to wade through the crowd, heavier than Gladio would have anticipated for this event. The Dawnlight Gallery holds this particular auction annually and it draws fairly sizeable numbers, but the sheer number of people in creased suits and cocktail dresses puts Gladio on higher alert than normal.

His mother holds court in a far corner of the lobby floor, the delicate stem of a champagne glass glittering between her fingers as she regales her audience with a practice anecdote, her sultry smile never wavering.

Gladio learned from the best, after all.

It’s easy enough to position himself behind and to the side of his mother, careful not to trample on cascade of teal silk flowing from her gown and pooling at her feet, his gaze cutting to Noctis at even intervals, sparing only a fraction of his attention to the social niceties playing out in front of him. Gladio’s had extensive practice affecting an interested expression, which he does now, waiting out the fond squeezes of his mother’s muscled arm and air kisses and simpering calls of _really, Celosia, we must see one another again soon_ as the miniature gathering disperses, occupying his thoughts by puzzling out how his mother will fight in the elaborate, jeweled gown she’s wearing. 

“Gladio,” she says affectionately, the warmth in her voice genuine.

“And here Iris thought I’d be in for a lecture.” Gladio bends—not far, though, given how his mother tops out at six feet herself—to receive a peck on the cheek.

“I thought you were keeping Noctis company?” The sparkling diamonds woven into her hair only emphasize the polish to her polite grin, as cool and perfect as the gems themselves. It’s a polite, coded way of asking Gladio why he’s slacking off.

“You know how he gets at the beginning of these things,” Gladio says with a dismissive wave of his hands, the chains draped along his chest clinking together softly as he does. He can’t say what he wants to say—Noctis prefers to make his initial appearances alone, after the grand entrance, and changing up the routine now would arouse more suspicions than it’s worth—but his mother’s expression relaxes slightly. The weighty metal of his revolver seems to grow hot against his thigh, burning against his skin.

“I do know. Lucis Caelum the Younger is certainly an enigma, isn’t he?” His mother veils the question in hypothetical speculation.

“That ain’t the word I’d use, exactly, but I guess it fits.” There aren’t any windows except the wide windows at the entrance of the gallery, and it gives Gladio the impression of being trapped in a box. “Pick up any interesting tidbits while waiting?”

Mother laughs, every decibel of the sound calculated. “Regrettably, no. I’ve seen some familiar faces, however, everyone’s attention seems to be focused on the impending auction.”

This is good news as far as Gladio’s concerned. His mother would have used one of their code phrases if she’d spotted anything unusual. “Any paintings catch your eye?”

“Several, though I suppose it’ll depend on the bidding as to whether or not we add any new pieces to our collection.” Gladio almost misses the subtle flick of her eyes before she speaks again. “I hope you’re prepared for the worst.”

“Of course,” Gladio reassures her.

Neither of them are talking about overpriced artwork.

“We still have nearly an hour before the auction begins. Perhaps you and Noctis could take a look at the available pieces for sale and see if anything catches your eye.”

“As always, you’re full of fantastic ideas.”

“No need to flatter me, Gladiolus.”

“Is it flattery if it’s true?” he asks, letting some of his cultivated charm seep into the question as a group of attendees congregates nearby.

His mother embraces him, kisses him one more time on the cheek, and then shoos him in the direction of Noctis, a knowing smile playing about her glossy lips.

For as public an affair as the media makes he and Noctis’s ‘relationship’—though the press’ notion of it misses the truth of it entirely—it adds a third, private layer in the double life he leads. He may be Amicitia heir by day, escort and bodyguard by night, but some part of him belongs to Noctis always, their lives inextricably tied together by both circumstance and desire. Gladio wouldn’t trade any part of his high risk, high reward lifestyle, least of all Noctis’s affection; as demanding and impatient as Noctis can be, he is surprisingly understanding about Gladio’s other… affairs… his friendship a constant in the flux of their positions.

He smiles to himself, assuming anyone watching will see it as the usual simper, and sweeps the thoughts aside for later, after this whole ordeal is finished. As soon as his gaze latches onto Noctis again, his smile falters, and it takes all of Gladio’s considerable practice to paint it back on his face, to keep his hips swaying and steps measured as he crosses the room. Adrenaline spreads through him like a shot of liquor as he takes in the scene before him. It’s not what Noctis is doing, but rather, who he’s doing it with.

He’d recognize Aranea Highwind and Ravus Nox Fleuret anywhere, especially when they’re flanking Noctis in the middle of a political fundraiser for Camelia Claustra, the Lucis Caelum’s strongest political connection and the source of their newly legitimized clout within Insomnia.

For the Izunias to send in the figurative big guns… it means they’re more serious than Gladio thought. Than _any_ of them thought. The murder of a Lucis Caelum associate was bad enough, but two of the most notorious Izunias showing up at this event?

It makes Gladio’s heart pound in double time and heightens his senses. Every word and action have now become triply important, as even a verbal misstep could spell disaster.

If Noctis recognizes them—and Gladio sure as hell hopes he does—he doesn’t betray any outward signs of it. Aranea and Ravus are decked out in black and vivid red, a red that reminds Gladio of nothing more than arterial blood, and he wonders if the choice was deliberate. Ravus projects an aura of arrogant disinterest so strong he may as well have his nose literally in the air, but Aranea seems downright jovial, painted fingernails plucking a ruby pendant from her cleavage and idly toying with it as she speaks.

“Gladio, right?” Aranea asks with a toss of her silver haired head. “I don’t think we’ve met, but I’ve heard a lot about you.” She offers a handshake instead of the demonstrative air kissing, which Gladio might appreciate more if it came from anyone else.

He accepts the handshake and finds her grip firmer than he expected, but also calloused, which confirms what he already knew from the extensive profiles they maintain on notable Izunia members: she knows her way around a fight.

So does Gladio, though, so that part bothers him less than their presence here at the event.

“Sorry, but you’ve got me at a disadvantage.” It’s not quite a lie and not quite the truth, which lends the words a smooth plausibility as Gladio speaks them. “Noctis? You wanna introduce us?” Gladio asks, sidling up to Noctis, placing a hand on his elbow, and willing him to meet his eyes.

For once in his life, Noctis does what Gladio wants, and through the wordless exchange, Noctis’s awareness of their situation is evident. “Ravus Nox Fleuret and Aranea Highwind,” Noctis says, nodding to both in turn, lips upturned in a bland—and to Gladio’s expert gaze, cautious—smile. “Art connoisseurs visiting from Niflheim.”

“It seems we may have overestimated the quality of offerings available at this auction,” Ravus says, not deigning to offer an introduction of his own or even look at Noctis or Gladio, his eyes scanning the room, nose and lip curled in an expression that Gladio can only call disgust.

“Not interested in the political side of things, then?” Gladio asks innocently, all too willing to lean into the role of vain escort.

“Oh…” Aranea says, eyebrows lifting and ruby red lips curling into a slow grin, exuding confidence with every breath, “I wouldn’t say that.”

The words chill Gladio’s blood and steel his nerves. Whatever they have planned—and Gladio is certain they have a plan—spells trouble.

* * *

Noctis, used to playing the political games that come with his family’s status, has never played one with the stakes this high in his lifetime.

He knows who Aranea and Ravus are. Noctis knows _they_ know who he is. The fact that Gladio clings to Noctis like a vine to a trellis—and the fact that Iris and Celosia have subtly inserted themselves into Noctis’s orbit, three sets of amber eyes boring holes into his body—confirms his suspicions: this is bad.

In the old days… he knows what his mother would have done. Regardless of the attempts to create a new, clean, and legitimate Lucis Caelum legacy, Aranea and Ravus would be full of lead and bleeding out on the ground before you could say ‘goodbye’. He suspects his father, Clarus, and Ignis would be on the same page, if they were here.

They’re not here, though, so it’s up to Noctis—with Gladio’s help—to call the shots.

“Got your eye on anything in particular tonight?” Aranea asks, sending Noctis careening back into the present moment.

Noctis offers a lazy shrug. “Haven’t had a chance to check out the art for sale, but I’m sure they’re all nice.”

“Nice,” Ravus scoffs. “That’s the best adjective you can come up with?” He doesn’t have the decency to look at Noctis as he speaks, presenting his profile instead, hands busy adjusting his blood red tie.

“Don’t mind him. I know what you’re thinking, and yes, he’s always like this, especially when the venue lacks an open bar,” Aranea says, eyes twinkling as she turns to Ravus, placing a hand on his chest and grinning. “But I love you anyway, don’t I, babe?” 

Ravus makes a disgruntled noise in the back of his throat, but interestingly, makes no move to put distance between himself and Aranea.

Noctis doesn’t have the information on potential targets memorized—that’s Gladio’s job, alongside keeping him alive if things go south—but he’s excellent at reading people, and doesn’t get the impression that Aranea and Ravus’s banter and sense of camaraderie is an act. It might be played up or misrepresented… much like his and Gladio’s relationship is to outside eyes… but the initial spark feels genuine.

However, he’d be an actual idiot not to sense the danger emanating from the pair. Noctis wouldn’t put lethal force past either of them, especially given what he _does_ remember from his mandatory dossier review.

“He’s a man of few words,” Gladio interjects, his hand moving from Noctis’s elbow to his lower back, affectionate and protective in the same turn, “but they’re usually worth paying attention to.”

As if Noctis needed a reminder to pay attention to Gladio’s signals. Still, the hand on his back steadies him. “I always enjoy an evening where I don’t have to give a stuffy, long winded speech,” Noctis admits, offering up a meaningless truth to ease the tension.

Aranea throws her head back and gives a delighted laugh. “Honest. I like it. They told me you were pretty straightforward, but I guess I wasn’t expecting it to be true.” Noctis barely has time to wonder who _they_ is before she continues. “I think Ravus and I will go see if there’s anything worth our contribution to this… fundraiser… but maybe we’ll catch up later.”

“Maybe,” Noctis agrees mildly, heart racing so hard he can feel his neck flutter in time with his pulse.

Ravus, looking like the very last thing he wants to do is see Noctis again, offers his arm to Aranea, who makes a show of accepting it. They turn their backs to Noctis—bold move, he thinks—and stroll off together, Aranea’s heels clicking against the polished hardwood floor, announcing her departure in staccato beats.

Once Aranea and Ravus are on the opposite side of the lobby, Gladio speaks. “Why don’t heard up to the second floor? Heard there’s a new modern art installment, and I wouldn’t mind seeing it. That is, if _you_ don’t mind.” The smoulder Gladio offers barely reaches his eyes, traces of serious intensity lingering beneath their amber surface.

“Sure thing,” Noctis agrees, and up they head.

He lets Gladio lead the way up the spiral staircase, and were they not dealing with a huge and unexpected complication, he’d spend more time admiring the way Gladio’s jumpsuit clings to his ass on every step up. Noctis hears more footfalls join their own, echoing on the wrought iron stairs; when he glances over his shoulder as casually as possible, he sees its only Iris and a petite, curly haired woman behind him, engaged in conversation and paying no attention to Noctis.

It’s the protocol, after all. Don’t act like anything’s wrong, even when it is.

Noctis nearly runs into what appears to be a headless statue of a giraffe as they reach the second floor, its body covered in graffiti that mimics the animal’s natural spots. Startled, Noctis jumps, which draws a low chuckle from Gladio despite the gravity of their situation.

“Modern art, huh?” Gladio asks, voice dripping with amusement.

Noctis stiffens and says nothing, opting to let Gladio guide him to a quiet corner of the floor. The second floor, thankfully, has floor to ceiling windows on the east and west sides of it, the bright, fluorescent lights of downtown Insomnia contrasting with the warm lighting pouring from the Dawnlight Gallery’s lavish chandeliers. Noctis stops when Gladio does, the two of them lingering in front of one of the windows. There are far less people on the level than the lobby, which gives Noctis a chance to catch his figurative breath.

“I don’t like it,” Gladio says frankly, and Noctis doesn’t need any clarification on what he refers to.

“I don’t either,” Noctis murmurs.

Gladio puts both hands on Noctis’s waist and draws him closer; Noctis assumes he’s trying to make it look like they chose to steal an intimate moment together in relative privacy, which is far preferable to anyone knowing that the criminal underbelly of Insomnia seems to have risen from the grave. Still, he takes comfort in the act, relaxing in Gladio’s embrace. “You wanna stick it out?”

Noctis hums and winds an arm around Gladio’s neck, careful to avoid catching any of Gladio’s many chains on his cufflinks. “It’ll look bad if we ditch this early.”

“It’ll look worse if you end up hurt or dead,” Gladio counters. There’s a familiar heat in the words, lending a severity to his beautifully made up features. If Noctis squints, he imagines he can see the scar hidden by layers of expensive concealer.

“Has someone else made the call?” Noctis asks, idly tracing one of the diamond gauges in Gladio’s ear with a fingertip.

“No, and believe me, I keep checking. No word to pull out. But, Noct…” Gladio pauses, giving Noctis’s heart time to skip a few painful beats at the use of the nickname from their youth, “I’m only gonna say this nicely once: don’t be a stubborn asshole.”

“When am I ever stubborn? No, wait, don’t answer that,” Noctis corrects with a chuckle. He checks his watch and adds, “twenty minutes until the auction, then we can go. In and out. Sooner if we need to. I’d like to keep Madame President off our back for a while, which means sticking this fundraiser out.”

“Okay, but if I say we go, we go. Promise?” 

“Promise,” Noctis agrees on an exhale. On a whim, he urges Gladio down for a kiss, barely more than a taste, but it grounds him all the same, relishing in the heat of Gladio’s breath ghosting across his face. “I trust you,” he says earnestly.

“You’d better.”

It’s easy enough to kill twenty minutes milling about the second level, examining some of the gallery’s permanent installments while waiting for the auction to begin. He and Gladio argue briefly over returning to the ground floor, but with Aranea and Ravus still there, Gladio puts his foot down until Noctis stops asking. Neither of them speak to Iris, but she stays within sight of Noctis, a reminder that there’s the very real possibility of violence—or worse—tonight.

A delicate chime followed by a smooth voice over the gallery’s sound system announces that the auction will soon begin. Noctis ascends the same spiral staircase from earlier, Gladio in tow, the metal clanging noisily under the weight of all the attendees making their way up. Noctis keeps one hand on Gladio’s arm, presumably tethering himself to his escort for the evening, but in reality he doesn’t want to lose Gladio in the crowd, especially given Aranea and Ravus’s attendance. 

The entire fourth floor has been filled with plush chairs, the art up for sale lining the perimeter of the room. This floor, unlike the previous ones, has windows all around the perimeter, the city lights even brighter from his height. Noctis notes some of their own people in the crowd along with Celosia and Iris, which makes him feel both better and worse. Congregating in one place makes them easy targets if the Izunia’s plans include violence, but Noctis meant what he said to Gladio: he trusts him with his life.

Noctis also has his own job to do.

More pleasantries and more smiles are traded as Noctis steers Gladio to the table with his bidding paddle— _good to see you, how is Annika, I thought you swore off politics_. If it were up to Noctis’s personal preferences, he’d take a seat at the back row, blend in more, but his whole reason for attending tonight involves visibility, so he and Gladio take their seats front and centre near the stage. His plan, insomuch as he can call it a plan, is to bid an exorbitant amount on one of the first five pieces, wait patiently until the auction concludes, transfer the money, and leave. Gladio’s so damn tense that Noctis can actually _tell_ he’s tense, which is an unusual comparison to Gladio’s easygoing, loose, sensual manner when he’s playing this part. He’s so glued to his phone that it skirts the edge of politeness, face carefully neutral, and Noctis shoves his worry about the messages being exchanged aside.

The auction begins.

The first part of the plan goes swimmingly. Noctis bids a month of Lucis Caelum profits on some postmodern, abstract rendition of Myrlwood, people clap politely at the the exorbitant overbid, and all is well.

All is well... until Aranea settles on his left and Ravus takes a seat on Gladio’s right, boxing them in.

“Didn’t peg you for an abstract art kind of guy,” Aranea remarks in an undertone, examining her painted fingernails intently.

“I’m not. One painting’s the same as another to me, honestly,” Noctis replies back, heart kicking back into overdrive. “That’s probably not what an _art connoisseur_ wants to hear, though.”

“Probably not,” Aranea agrees.

The auctioneer has enough time to sell three more paintings, all in the name of Madame President, before Aranea picks up where she left off.

“You see, the thing is…” Aranea pauses and catches Noctis’s eye, and her bold lips and eyes remind him of a poisonous snake, one that warns you they’re venomous before they strike. She lowers her voice further, her words taking on a conspiratorial tone. “The thing is, I’m not really an art connoisseur, but I think you guessed that already. You seem like a smart enough kid. It’s just a shame you weren’t smart enough to stay out of all this.”

Though he bristles at being called ‘kid’, Noctis remains calm, his tone even and bordering on sleepy. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Playing dumb’s a safe strategy, but it doesn’t win you any points for creativity,” Aranea muses.

Maybe it’s a trap. Maybe she’s goading him. If she is… it works.

“What do you want?” Noctis asks, the boredom stripped from his words with each passing syllable.

“It’s not really what I want. It’s what my _boss_ wants, and well, since he’s signing my cheques… you know how it is.” She shrugs one bare shoulder with all the carelessness of someone who has no personal stake.

He sees the flash of Gladio’s phone, and then Gladio’s hand is on Noctis’s hip, his fingers digging in painfully, but Noctis ignores him. “And what does your boss want?”

“I’m not really privy to all the details, but tonight… he just wanted us to talk to you. To be seen with you. To take a leaf out of the Lucis Caelum playbook. The nonviolent strategy and PR stunts are cute, really they are… but they go both ways, sweetheart.”

There’s more activity at the front of the room, hundreds and thousands of gil being promised for ink on canvas, but Noctis registers none of it. “Does it?”

“Yeah.” Aranea smiles and leans down, her lips brushing against Noctis’s ear as she speaks, sending an icy shiver down his spine. “You’ve been seen with us all evening… and now we’re sitting here chatting, thick as thieves, the four of us. How do you think it would look if someone were to take the opportunity to create a little chaos? Muck up this prim and proper fundraiser with some good old fashioned fun?” Aranea sits back in her original position, and the smug pity in her expression makes Noctis’s stomach drop.

His head spins. He wants to ask more questions, but Gladio’s laughing and tugging at his arm playfully—a ruse within a ruse. It’s Gladio’s turn to smile, bend down, and whisper in his other ear.

“We gotta get you out of here.” His tone brooks no argument.

Noctis maintains enough composure to stand on his own, Gladio right behind him. As he moves towards the outer aisle, he hears Aranea speak a final time, her words pitched for his and Gladio’s ears alone.

“When you see Regis and Aulea… tell them their old business partner sends his heartfelt regards.”

* * *

If Gladio thought he couldn’t be more primed for action, one text proves him wrong, making his adrenaline skyrocket into the stratosphere.

 **[C. Amicitia 22:04]** Get Noctis out.

That’s all the excuse he needs. As soon as his mother sent the message, Gladio sent one of his own, arranging for a car to be left for the two of them outside the Dawnlight Gallery.

Noctis, for his part, appears dazed as Gladio leads him out of the aisle of chairs and away from Aranea and Ravus. He wishes they didn’t have hundreds of eyes on them as he and Noctis make their way to the emergency exit stairwell. Gladio smiles and murmurs apologies as they brush past, the excuses that Noctis would normally make but is too distracted to. Keeping Noctis tucked under his arm serves two purposes—obscuring his shocked face from the crowd and literally shielding his body from harm.

When they reach the gold painted door, Gladio quickly pushes the solid bar to open it and enters first. He glances over his shoulder to find Noctis’s twilight gaze distant and unfocused.

“Noct, this ain’t the time to space out on me. We gotta get outta here ASAP,” Gladio says sternly, bending down and gripping both of Noctis’s shoulders through his cream suit jacket. “You understand?”

“What the fuck does it matter?” Noctis snaps, challenge blazing from his eyes, one hand angrily chopping through the air. “They already did what they set out to do. We’re screwed.”

“No, we’re not,” Gladio growls, shaking Noctis’s shoulders for good measure. “We’re screwed if anything happens to _you_ , which gets more and more likely the longer you stand here like an idiot. Move your ass before I throw you over my shoulder and haul you outta here myself!” 

Noctis shoves Gladio’s hands off his shoulders and glares. “ _Fine_ ,” he spits, gesturing in front of him in a mockery of politeness. “After you.”

As Gladio begins to descend the stairwell, he unholsters his pearl-handled revolver from inside his jumpsuit and double checks that all the chambers are loaded. He hopes he doesn’t have to resort to violence, but he also won’t allow anything to keep him from leaving the gallery with Noctis.

They’re halfway down the stairwell when a single gunshot sounds in the difference—shotgun, if Gladio had to guess by the volume—followed by the dull roar of muffled, panicked screaming from above.

“Shit. C’mon, Noct, faster,” Gladio hisses through gritted teeth, half dragging Noctis down the stairs.

“Going as fast as I can,” Noctis says between breaths, jerking his arm away.

As they reach the ground floor, Gladio almost runs into a man nearly as tall as he is, two more standing behind him, and he curses inwardly when he recognizes their faces from the Izunia profiles he reviewed. He can’t immediately discern if they’re armed, but they’re already surging towards Noctis, so he shoves Noctis behind him and takes aim with his revolver, firing shots at each individual.

 _One two three_ , quick and fast and impossibly loud in the confined space. Three bodies crumple to the ground with holes in their heads, blood and other gore splattering the walls around them in wide, crimson arcs.

Now they have two problems: getting away from the Izunias and the chaos _and_ avoiding the police that a well meaning bystander is sure to have called. With Lucis Caelum and Amicitia connections, a lot can be done to make crimes disappear, but getting caught red handed with a murder weapon will make that task exponentially more difficult.

“There’s blood on my suit,” Noctis complains, voice haughty but face pale and tinged with green, and Gladio clamps down on the urge to throw Noctis over his shoulder anyway.

“Don’t care. Keep moving,” Gladio commands, concealing his weapon in his jumpsuit as they exit to the lobby floor. To be on the safe side, he closes a hand around Noctis’s wrist and pulls, both to ensure his speed and to stay connected to him.

Panicked people are no better than animals, driven by the singular instinct of fear, and the men and women jumping from the top of the wrought iron staircase only prove that fact, designer fabric fluttering like colourful leaves as they plummet towards the ground. Gladio about faces and beelines for the back of the gallery, where a tucked away fire exit leads to the back alley of the building. His blood roars in his ears, loud enough to drown out some of the screaming behind him, but all he feels is sharp focus and an urge to get _away_ , as fast as he can. He spares a single thought for Iris and his mother, but they know how to do their jobs like Gladio knows how to do his.

Early fall air rushes in a chilly wave over Gladio as he and Noctis burst into the alleyway. It takes Gladio all of two seconds to spot the car parked at the end of the alley, nondescript black with throwaway plates, engine running, and he and Noctis race towards it like a lifeline.

Gladio motions Noctis to stay back as he quickly checks that the vehicle is empty—wouldn’t be the first time it wasn’t—then signals the all clear, jumping over the hood and sliding across it before hauling his own ass into the driver’s seat.

“Buckle up, stay low, and get ready to do as I say,” Gladio says, grabbing the gearshift and throwing the car into first as soon as his feet touch the clutch and accelerator.

“Like I have much of a choice.” Still, Gladio can see that Noctis has lowered his seat all the way back and has his phone out to help with navigation, so he lets it pass.

His first instinct says to go back to the Amicitia penthouse, _his_ penthouse, but with this much heat, with Aranea and Ravus’ entire gambit designed to cast suspicion on them… Gladio changes the plan. Noctis, of course, notices.

“Where are you going? Home is the other way!”

“Ain’t going home. No way. Even if we’re lucky enough that all of our people made it out okay, there’s gonna be too much attention on both our families. We need the villa,” Gladio explains.

“No! It’ll look worse if we go off the radar. We didn’t do anything wrong!” Noctis is raising his voice at this point, and were Gladio not illegally driving on a median to bypass a stopped lane of traffic, he’d have half a mind to yell back.

“Shut the fuck up and focus!” Gladio roars, throwing the car into a lower gear as they take a hairpin turn, tires squealing.

Oops. Guess he’s yelling too.

Thank the Six it’s a weeknight, or else trying to get out of downtown Insomnia would have hamstrung them from the get go. As it is, Gladio breaks a plethora of traffic laws, everything from speeding to reckless driving, praying to the Six that he doesn’t have to evade a patrol car on top of navigating through Insomnia’s gridlike streets.

It’s a small miracle that Noctis falls silent, slumped back in his chair, his breathing loud enough to be heard over the roar of the Regalia’s engine. When he peeks his head above the window, tendrils of his slicked back hair escaping at odd angles, Gladio’s about to give him shit again.

“Mors Ave is closed for construction tonight. You’ll need to find another way to the bridge,” Noctis mutters, tone a mix of resentful and worried.

“Thanks.”

“Also, I’m pretty sure we’re being followed.”

Gladio grinds his teeth so hard he worries they’ll chip. “You couldn’t have _lead_ with that?”

“What, so you can hulk out at me again?”

Gladio lets out a frustrated sigh. The last thing he has time for is to argue with Noctis while he’s trying to stunt drive and keep both of their asses out of hot water. “Which car?”

“Uh… the white one. Boxy. Tinted windows. You can’t miss it.”

Sure enough, a glance in the rearview confirms that, even after several turns—more reasonably paced, but none of them necessary—a white SUV tails them, staying several carlengths back but always within sight.

What Gladio does next will probably earn him several lectures of his own. The Regalia he’s driving is more narrow than the car tailing them, but not narrow enough to drive through a pedestrian pathway and lose them that way.

“Noct, I need you to steer.”

“What?!” Noctis sits bolt upright.

“Don’t fuckin’ argue with me, just take the wheel and keep us going straight,” Gladio snaps as he hits the button to roll the driver’s side window down.

“This is insane,” Noctis says disbelievingly, but he leans over and places his blood-flecked hands on the steering wheel. “Whatever you’re doing, hurry up.”

Gladio waits until the SUV is directly behind the Regalia with no cars separating them. He withdraws his revolver, mentally allocates himself two shots, and then leans out the window of the car and takes aim.

He can make out the shocked expression of the driver as he fires the first shot into the windshield. Gladio isn’t sure if it pierced the glass or not, but it does fracture it, which is good enough for him. The wind whips his hair into a wild tangle as he aims his second shot at the massive tire. Noctis chooses that moment to swerve the Regalia in a wild arc before correcting its course.

“Noct!” Gladio bellows as he dangles out the window.

Noctis calls something back in response, but his words are lost to the screaming wind and noise of cars. Gladio aims again, fires, and a satisfying pop signals that he hit his target, the tire rapidly deflating as the SUV speeds along. He doesn’t waste anymore time, heaving his body back in the car and taking control back from Noctis.

“That gonna work?” Noctis asks warily, glancing over his shoulder.

“They can drive on it, but they won’t be able to go as fast as we can.”

It takes longer than Gladio would like, but he loses the pursuing vehicle somewhere between the city of Insomnia’s public library and the unofficial border that marks the end of the city, thanks to a series of sharp u-turns and long, empty straightaways allowing them to gain distance. The whole escape makes time pass in paradoxical waves: hours pass in a blink, and seconds drag out to hours as Gladio leaves the majority of downtown Insomnia behind in the rearview.

The Oracle Bridge, a massive structure that connects Insomnia to the rest of the Lucian mainland, glows in the distance like a beacon of hope. Gladio floors the accelerator and the Regalia roars towards the bridge, speedometer climbing to nearly 200 km/hour. 

“Why didn’t they shoot back?” A quick check shows that Noctis’s body rests flush against the leather seats, probably more from the acceleration of the car than any effort of his own.

“I ain’t exactly daydreaming over here, y’know,” Gladio growls, stress robbing him of any eloquent elocution as he weaves in and out of oncoming traffic, passing several cars in the process.

Gladio’s phone vibrates in his jumpsuit. He only has time to hope it’s good news before his attention snaps back into focus, straddling the solid line separating the lanes as he squeezes between two compact cars, earning two long blasts of horns for his trouble. 

“I thought the plan was to keep us _alive_ ,” Noctis snarks.

“You wanna fucking drive?!”

Once he gets across the bridge, it’ll be easy enough to take a combination of back roads and highways to the villa that serves as Noctis’s safehouse. Although the bright LED numerals on the dash tell Gladio seven minutes have passed since losing their pursuer, it feels like seven years, head spinning from the sheer influx of adrenaline. A few more illegal maneuvers have him barrelling towards the start of the Oracle Bridge, the road mostly empty in front of him, mere minutes from freedom.

“We’ve got more company. Bikes, two on the left and one on the right. And they—” Noctis’s strained report cuts off as a gun fires in the distance, the shattering of glass following not a breath behind as their rear window cracks. “—they’ve got guns.”

“ _Fuck_!” Gladio assesses his options. Three guns, three shots. No margin for error. He can make the shots, but keeping Noctis safe is his top priority, and trying to take them out might expose him to more danger than trying to outrun them.

“Gladio, what’s the plan?” Noctis asks, slumped down in his seat, eyes wide and serious.

“Shit.” The rumble of the bikes grows louder as they approach the Regalia, the two bikes on the left visible in his side mirror, more gunfire pinging against the armored surface of the Regalia. “Need you to take the wheel again. Try not to drive us off the bridge.”

Noctis scoffs as he leans over, hands on the steering wheel as Gladio keeps the gas pedal floored. Once the car is steady…

One chance, Gladio. Don’t screw it up and don’t look down.

Window down, gun in hand, Gladio thanks his lucky stars that even though the targets are moving, even though the wind devours any noise but rushing air and roaring engine, even though they’re speeding over the Tidemother’s Tail where a steering mishap will kill them… Noctis keeps the Regalia’s course on the straight and narrow.

 _One two_ blasts of fire from his revolver sends two leather clad riders sprawling across the highway, bodies and bikes tumbling together in a grisly tangle. As soon as they’re downed, Gladio withdraws back into the Regalia and takes over for Noctis.

“Fucking Six,” Noctis mutters, a sheen of sweat glistening on his face in the bright lights of the Oracle Bridge.

“Still got one more to worry about,” Gladio says. Right on cue, more gunshots fill the air, more cracking of glass and thudding of metal. “Gotta get that fucker off us.” An idea comes to him. “He’s on your side—think you can manage to hit him somewhere in the chest?”

Noctis looks downright offended at the question. “Isn’t that what I pay _you_ for?” he asks incredulously.

“If you haven’t fuckin’ noticed, I’ve been earning my paycheck tonight. Can you do it or not?”

“You only have one bullet left… if I miss, we need another plan.”

Gladio makes an agitated noise somewhere between a hum and a growl. They’re almost to the end of the bridge, and the coast is clear behind them aside from the red bike a couple car lengths back, and that gives Gladio an idea. He holsters his gun—doesn’t wanna lose hold of it—and glances at Noctis, pale suit and paler skin glowing in the darkness of the night around them.

“Brace yourself!”

That’s all the warning he gives Noctis before he simultaneously throws the car into a lower gear and slams down on the brakes. The transmission makes a grinding shriek of protest and the smell of burning rubber floods the interior as the world lurches to a halt, seat belt cutting into Gladio’s skin as the force flings him into it.

But it gives Gladio the opening he wants, because the bike’s in front of the car now, slowing as the rider prepares to circle back.

Right as the rider begins to speed towards the Regalia and oncoming traffic, Gladio retrieves his gun, leans out the still open window, and fires his last shot.

There’s no dramatic spray of blood, no slow motion sequence, just motion and gravity following the laws of physics before him. The rider and bike fall to the pavement, skidding across it in separate directions, human body limp as a ragdoll.

Gladio has no time to celebrate. He puts the car back into the appropriate gear, jams the clutch, and whips the Regalia around in the correct direction, flying towards the freedom waiting at the end of the bridge. He can worry about Cindy killing him for trashing the car later.

Without the sounds of gunfire, motorcycle engines, police sirens, or Noctis’s voice, Gladio’s heartrate slowly begins to descend to a more human pace. His limbs take on a subtle tremor, more from the disappearance of adrenaline than any fear on his part, but that doesn’t change the fact that he’s alert, gaze raking across Noctis first for any signs of injury before beginning the circuit of his mirrors.

“You okay?” Gladio asks after they’ve cleared the bridge, smoothly taking the exit for Galdin Quay. He won’t stay on the highway long, just enough to get to the series of quiet back roads that lead to the villa.

Noctis doesn’t answer him immediately, his breathing ragged. “Am I _okay?_ ” he asks, pitch raising with each successive word. “I mean, I’m alive, so that’s a start, but that was a _shitshow_.”

“Noct—”

“The fundraiser is ruined. The press is going to have a field day with that by itself, let alone if some idiot with a cell phone decided to film any of what just went down. The Izunias are back and have enough influence to not only get into the auction unnoticed, but to send people in a goddamn high speed car chase after us as we evac! _People are dead_ , and Aranea and Ravus made sure it looks like my family _was in on the whole thing_! So no, I’m not fucking _okay!_ ”

“Don’t you fucking yell at me,” Gladio starts, his own anger rising to meet Noctis’s tirade, taking his eyes off the road far longer than advisable to stare him down, “when I just single handedly pulled your ass out of the fire!”

“That’s your _job!”_ Noctis snarls, sitting up in his seat.

“Keep this shit up and it might not be for much longer!” Gladio roars back, indulging his fury because it’s easier than processing any of what just went down.

“You don’t have the balls,” Noctis says, all quiet menace. It reminds Gladio that despite the fact they’ve been friends for close to two decades, despite the fact they keep falling into each other’s beds, he is Lucis Caelum through and through.

It takes the better part of Gladio’s self control not to stop the car, shove Noctis out of it, and leave him on the side of the road, friend or not. “You wanna find out?!” he yells, voice booming through the Regalia’s interior.

Noctis doesn’t answer, thank the Six, and instead lapses into moody, prickly silence, slouching in his seat and staring out the window.

Good. Let him stew.

* * *

A beautiful zephyr drifts in through the sheer, white curtains at the villa’s seaside opening, carrying with it the faint scent of salt and ocean. The waves are calm and steady, their distant crash rhythmic and soothing. From between the gauzy, floating fabric, Noctis can see an endless expanse of clear water, stretching all the way to the horizon and beyond. It _should_ calm him.

It doesn’t.

Beside him where he lays on the king sized bed, his phone screen lights up. Thinking it might be Gladio, who left a couple hours ago on a covert supply run—broad brimmed hat, big glasses, cash payment in the form of untraceable gil—Noctis picks it up, a little _too_ eagerly. It’s not Gladio; it’s a text from his lawyer.

 **[R. Harris 13:42]:** Noctis, if you don’t return my calls, I’m tripling my retainer fee going forward. We need to get ahead of this and I can’t do that without your cooperation. Talk soon.

Annoyed, Noctis tosses the phone to the far end of the bed and watches it bounce off the teal green duvet, tumbling to the floor. It’s a childish act of defiance, but it makes him feel a little better, so it counts for something. He groans and flings an arm over his eyes, taking comfort in the darkness the cover provides.

He doesn’t want to clean up this mess. He doesn’t want to _be_ in this mess in the first place, but here he is, ostensibly off the grid… except for the stupid phone, ringing and lighting up with lectures, everyone from his mother and father to his lawyer berating him to act.

Bad news continues to pour in each day they spend at the hideaway. Madame President is furious. They lost as many of their own as he and Gladio took out—no one close to them, praise the fucking Astrals, but deaths all the same—and as he guessed, the press got a hold of the story before the Lucis Caelum PR team, so speculation is flooding media outlets everywhere. Most of all, and Noctis won’t know more until it's safe to go back home, the Izunias are _definitely_ players in the Insomnian underworld again, and the ramifications of that… could be disastrous.

Plus, Gladio’s still not talking to him, not really, so that’s just the icing on the cake.

Noctis props himself up on his elbows and stares wistfully out at the ocean. What he’d _really_ like is to go fishing. If he squints, he can see the pier in the distance, sun-faded wood calling his name like a siren song.

No. Gladio was _adamant_ about staying inside the villa, as open and secluded as it is, and the last thing he needs is more stern talking tos about _safety_. In fact, pretty much the only words Gladio’s said to him since their arrival have been about _security_ and _status updates_ and _Noct, you need to talk to Iggy and Regis, it’s important_.

Blowing air through his lips, Noctis flips over and buries his face in one downy pillow. If he can’t fish, he can nap, and that’s exactly what he does.

* * *

When he wakes, drifting up from the quiet unconsciousness of slumber, sunset paints the sky in delicate lavenders and cotton candy pinks, multicoloured light streaming through the diaphanous curtains. Noctis gropes for his phone to check the time, before he drowsily recalls that he threw it across the room before his nap, so he sits up and scrubs at his face, a disgruntled moan escaping him as he contemplates the prospect of wakefulness.

“Why do you always sound half dead when you wake up?”

Gladio’s voice cuts through his fatigue like a bright knife. “Least I don’t snore,” Noctis mumbles, willing his heavy eyelids to stay open through sheer force of will.

He looks up to find Gladio sitting at the polished, wooden two seater, legs crossed and full pint glass on the table in front of him, condensation dappling its surface. Gone is the mask of the vixen, replaced by a Gladio halfway between the two extremes Noctis knows. His hair is pulled back into a loose bun, a few tendrils escaping to cling to his neck and the shaved sides of his head. No jewelry, no earrings, and no makeup, the pale crescent scar bisecting his left eye fully visible. Even rarer is the day’s worth of stubble across his cheeks and chin.

Shirtless, _of course_ , though Noctis always enjoys looking at the intricate, lacy lines of his tattoo across his upper back and arms.

“I don’t snore.” Gladio doesn’t look at him, just keeps staring out at the ocean, only moving to take a sip of whatever beer he acquired out in town.

“Yeah, you totally do. I would know. You’ve stayed over enough times.”

“How would you know if you’re always asleep before me and awake after me?” Gladio counters.

“Not always,” Noctis protests, crawling on his hands and knees until he reaches the edge of the bed, sitting so his legs dangle down the side of it. “Just most of the time.”

Gladio snorts and flicks his eyebrows upward disbelievingly. “Whatever you say, Noct.”

Noctis forces the words out, pretending he’s trying to appease a client instead of his friend slash escort slash bodyguard slash lover. “Listen, I know I got pretty heated the other night. I’m sorry.”

Sometimes, Noctis hates how efficiently Gladio knows how to utilize his body language, because the slow, deliberate way he turns to face Noctis makes him struggle to catch his breath. “Hmm? Didn’t catch that.”

Ass. “You heard me.”

“Funny, ‘cause I _thought_ I heard ‘I’m sorry’, but my hearing’s still a little off from all the close quarters gunfire.” Gladio smirks, slow and knowing.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Noctis repeats, the second word louder for emphasis, but he can’t stop the roll of his eyes. “You gave as good as you got,” he adds, only a little defensively.

“Don’t I always?” Gladio asks. His smirk fades to a more neutral expression, amber eyes guarded as he studies Noctis.

“Unfortunately.”

Quiet fills the room once more, interspersed with the cries of seagulls and the crashing of waves. Gladio takes another sip of his beer, his face in profile as he looks past the curtains, towards the ocean, focused on some unknown point of interest in the distance. Noctis can make out a faint sheen of sweat glistening on Gladio’s neck and shoulders despite the cool night air. When he finally turns back to Noctis, his thick, manicured eyebrows are drawn together in a frown.

“Hey… that’s my shirt,” Gladio says, putting his glass back on the table. “You’ve got your own wardrobe, you know.”

Heat floods Noctis’s cheeks. Gladio isn’t wrong; Noctis wears a cream coloured shirt of Gladio’s, comfortable despite being far too big on him, overtop his own black jeans. “I didn’t like anything I have here. Besides, none of it had long sleeves, and it’s cold.” He meets and holds Gladio’s gaze, disguising his embarrassment in a layer of false confidence. “You don’t mind.”

“I let you get away with too damn much.” Gladio chuckles and stands from the table, sauntering over to the bed—some things never change—and taking a seat beside Noctis. It’s difficult for him not to lean into Gladio immediately, but he resists, tilting his chin up a little higher under Gladio’s regard.

“Funny, because I could say the same about you.”

“You’d steamroll over anyone else. Someone’s gotta bite the bullet, and I’m the best man for the job,” Gladio says, running a hand through Noctis’s unstyled hair and continuing down his back. His lazy smirk falters. “You’re pretty tense.”

Noctis laughs, a laugh that sounds more like a scoff. “You think? We’re all over the news and in danger of being embroiled in a full scale gang war, like the old days. ‘Pretty tense’ might be an understatement.”

“I know something that would help,” Gladio rumbles, bending down and kissing Noctis’s jaw, his lips warm and soft. His scent of his cologne envelops Noctis, spicy and and sweet and floral all at the same time, the natural musk of him faint underneath the artificial smells.

Noctis takes a deep breath to draw in more air, to breathe Gladio in. As he closes his eyes, he remembers Gladio’s joke when they were entering the gallery— _try to pretend you’re in love with me._

The thing is… Noctis hasn’t had to pretend. Not for a long time. Not since this arrangement started years ago.

“Because it’s your job?” Noctis asks, proud of how nonchalant the question sounds, even with Gladio’s mouth on his neck.

Gladio pulls back, one eyebrow raised, a nameless expression passing across his features without taking root. “You _are_ my job, but you’re also more, and you’re smart enough to know that. You just wanna hear me say it.” He punctuates the blunt accusation with another kiss, feather light, on Noctis’s neck.

“I do want to hear you say it,” Noctis says over the roaring of blood in his ears, unable to stop the steely challenge from reinforcing his words. “Say you’re mine.” 

Were he not looking for it, Noctis would have missed the brief widening of Gladio’s eyes, a shock quickly suppressed with expert skill. Instead of speaking, Gladio grabs hold of Noctis’s waist and leans back on the bed, taking Noctis with him, the orientation of the room shifting in a sudden lurch. When it settles, Gladio kisses him, slotting his mouth against Noctis’s and parting his lips, encouraging Noctis to claim him with tongue and teeth and breath, and he does. It lights a fire within Noctis that burns just as brightly this time as it did the first, scorching away any reservation he might have.

“I can do you one better,” Gladio purrs underneath him, and there’s no way Noctis can miss the hardness pressing against his thigh, “I’ll prove it.”

“Oh?” Noctis asks, casually skimming a hand up Gladio’s abs until he reaches a nipple, taking it between thumb and forefinger and rolling it slowly between them. “Did I give the impression I was asking?” he adds, enjoying the way Gladio’s eyes go half lidded as Noctis pinches harder. He dips his head and takes the opposite nipple in his mouth, sucking with as much pressure as he dares, and is rewarded with a grunt from Gladio.

“Make me yours.” There’s a beautiful strain to the words, one that reassures Noctis this isn’t part of the polish, the act. When Noctis adds a graze of teeth to the mix, Gladio rolls his hips upward. “ _Fuck me_ ,” he moans, and Noctis feels his cock swell at the words, growing impossibly hard where it’s tucked in his jeans.

“Deal,” Noctis says once he lifts his head. He shifts up Gladio’s body and kisses him again, more urgent now, not waiting for an invitation before sliding his tongue into Gladio’s mouth. He feels for the tie of Gladio’s bun and pulls on it, teasing it free, which causes his hair to spill in a glossy fan across the pillow. 

It’s a familiar dance, and the steps are second nature, ingrained from years of practice. Noctis had never intended for Gladio to be his escort _or_ lover in actuality, only a front, but the easy way Gladio’s hands find and unbutton his jeans speaks to the truth. The hungry way Noctis kisses Gladio, all tongue and teeth, tugging his silk briefs down thick thighs as he does so, is fueled by fierce possessiveness.

Gladio can belong to as many people as he needs to for the job, for a night or a week or a month, as long as he gets the information he needs… and finds his way back to Noctis at the end.

So far, he always has, and tonight is no exception. By the time both of them are naked, Gladio has ended up beneath him again, and Noctis lazily ruts against Gladio, sparks of pleasure flaring to life each time their cocks brush together. Even with the mask of vixen partially discarded, Gladio is as gorgeous as the sounds he makes, authentic ones, needy moans broken up by grunts and groans.

Noctis inserts a hand between their bodies and trails it downward, tracing Gladio’s rim with a single fingertip, his cock leaking anew as he does. “Still want this?” he asks, voice low and heavy with desire.

He imagines, if Gladio were in full escort mode, if he were in anyone else’s bed but Noctis’s, the annoyed look he receives would be a simper or a wink or some other playful, seductive deflection. “Cut it out with the teasing.”

“Says the tease.” He moves his hand up and takes Gladio’s flushed, stiff cock in hand and gives it a few light strokes. “Get me the lube.” At Gladio’s flat expression, Noctis adds, “What? You’re closer.”

Noctis catches the small bottle easily after Gladio retrieves it from the single nightstand and tosses it to him. Only a touch reluctantly, Noctis shuffles down Gladio’s body until he’s no longer on top of him, instead sitting back on his heels between Gladio’s spread legs. Once he coats his hand, Noctis sets the bottle of lube aside, reaches down, and slowly pushes a finger inside Gladio, his own cock twitching as he does.

Gladio’s reaction is immediate and enthusiastic, and Noctis can’t help but hold still for a moment, listening to the quiet whine and watching the flush darken Gladio’s chest and neck. When Noctis begins to open him up, the whine becomes louder and Gladio takes his lower lip in his teeth, his hips straining towards Noctis’s hand.

As one finger becomes two and two turns into three, Gladio unravels further, his cock dribbling a steady trickle of precome as Noctis works his prostate. Noctis enjoys knowing it’s him making Gladio feel this way, enjoys the lewd moans and parted lips and heaving, chiseled chest, and it affords him more patience than he might otherwise have. Once three fingers meet no resistance, he lets his fingers slip from Gladio, perversely pleased at the frustrated growl Gladio makes once he’s empty.

He won’t stay that way for long.

“Hurry,” Gladio pleads, the amber of his eyes swallowed by his pupils, his gaze threatening to swallow Noctis along right with them.

Noctis finds the lube, squeezing out just enough to coat his cock, still sitting back on his heels as he strokes himself under Gladio’s regard. “Condom?”

“None left. Don’t need anyway,” Gladio murmurs, making a fist around his length and mirroring Noctis’s own hand.

Noctis closes the distance between them, leaning over Gladio’s torso, one hand braced on the bed near Gladio’s tattooed shoulder and the other on his cock. When Gladio’s powerful, smooth legs wrap around Noctis’s waist, he guides himself to his hole, exhaling a stuttering breath as he begins to sheath himself in Gladio’s tight heat. Once he’s fully seated, he gasps quietly, the sound contrasting with the open moan Gladio gives.

“I still wanna hear you say it,” Noctis says, eyes locked on Gladio’s even as his cock is buried inside him.

“I’m yours,” Gladio says, the syllables drawn out into another moan as Noctis gives a single rock of his hips. His hands find Noctis’s ass and squeeze, urging him closer, deeper. “ _Fuck_ , I’m yours...”

Underneath the fog of desire, Noctis knows Gladio is aware of his preferences, of his longing to be wanted, but his words seem earnest and raw in a way they haven’t before, echoed by the intensity in his amber eyes. Noctis obliges him and begins to move, setting an easy, even pace at first. The speed allows him to watch Gladio and, while the difference in their heights makes it tricky, Noctis takes advantage of being fully inside him to kiss Gladio, their mouths messy and hot and wonderful against each other.

It doesn’t take long for Noctis to increase his speed, for his heart to drum furiously in his chest from exertion, for the wave of his pleasure to mount. He’s drilled Gladio into the mattress enough times to know this time feels different, more intense, less primal, charged with an unquantifiable factor. As soon as he has the thought, his desire burns it away, his world narrowed to himself and Gladio alone.

Sweat beads along Noctis’s forehead and back as he continues, making his hair cling to his forehead as he bows his head, hips moving fast and fluid. “I’m close,” he gasps between thrusts, fighting off his orgasm, not wanting to give in too soon.

“Push my legs back… deeper, please…” Gladio pants, back arching off the bed as he speaks.

Noctis pauses to adjust their position, withdrawing from Gladio, placing his hands on Gladio’s trembling thighs, and pushing them back. The change exposes Gladio’s cock, the head a deep red and weeping precome, and the sight makes him slam back into Gladio with a loud slap of skin, desperate to be inside him again. Gladio takes his cock in hand and jerks off beneath Noctis’s, his eyes screwed shut and back arching again as he strokes himself in fast, quick motions.

Noctis manages to hold out until Gladio succumbs, his ass clenching tight around Noctis, his whole body going rigid as he paints his chest with thick ropes of his own come, moaning all the while. When his muscles and hips jerk in tiny, involuntary motions, a sign he’s riding out the aftershocks, Noctis gives in too. Heat explodes low in Noctis’s belly as he groans loud and long, holding himself deep inside Gladio, cock pulsing and filling him with his come, his only thought a singular word: _mine_.

Dropping his head to Gladio’s shoulder, Noctis catches his breath, his body covered in sweat. Gladio strokes Noctis’s back in gentle passes, chuckling as he does. Judging from the way neither of them move, Noctis assumes he’s not in a hurry to clean up, so he slips out of him and all but collapses on top of him.

“Good?” Gladio asks after a few minutes.

“Great,” Noctis replies. “Perfect,” he amends, and he’s never meant anything more in his life.

* * *

Later, after showers and cleanup, Gladio’s finally settling in for sleep, Noctis curled on the opposite side of the bed. After he runs through his mental checklist—evening report done, villa locked, alarm set—he reaches to turn off the bedside light, plunging the room into darkness.

He thought Noctis had already fallen asleep, but a quiet question corrects him.

“Gladio? Can I… ?”

Gladio knows what he’s asking, even though Noctis never _quite_ asks for it in words. Confident Lucis Caelum scion he may be, but some things require a different kind of bravery, he supposes.

“C’mere.”

A single word of permission is all it takes to erase his doubt, it seems. He shuffles across the bed and slots his body against Gladio’s, one arm slung across Gladio’s midsection and head resting on his shoulder. The skin to skin contact, the searing heat of him at each point their bodies touch, reassures Gladio that Noctis is safe and well.

“Anyone tell you how high maintenance you are?” Gladio asks, stroking Noctis’s back with one broad hand, tracing his spine with each up and down pass.

“You do. Often. Too much, really, considering you’re on the payroll.”

“You and I both know it ain’t just about the payroll.”

Noctis sighs, the sound only somewhat muffled by Gladio’s skin. “Be that as it may…” he pauses. “I’m worried. If… if Ardyn’s _really_ back...”

“If he is, we’ll handle it. But you gotta do your part. Regis and Aulea have started calling _me_ , and I can’t put them off much longer, on top of dealing with the rest of the Amicitia side.”

“I know.” Noctis takes his head from Gladio’s shoulder and leans back, just enough to meet Gladio’s eyes in the darkness. “Any suggestions on who to start with?”

Gladio hums thoughtfully. “Normally, I’d say that persistent prick of a lawyer...”

“He’s not _that_ bad.”

“But I think it’s gotta be Aulea first,” Gladio continues, talking over the last part of Noctis’s sentence. “She’s probably putting the screws to some poor Izunia sap as we speak, and if you don’t talk to her soon, you’re next on the list.”

Noctis nods, reaches up, tangles one hand in Gladio’s hair, and considers. A few moments pass before he speaks again. “Alright. I’ll get started tomorrow. One day at a time, right?”

“Right.”

Noctis pulls Gladio down into a kiss, deep and slow and certain, and it only confirms what Gladio suspected: something in the atmosphere has shifted.

“Hey, Gladio?” Noctis asks quietly after they part, so soft Gladio’d almost call it a whisper.

“Yeah?”

“What you said at the gallery, about pretending I love you…” Noctis gives a heavy sigh. “I don’t have to pretend, you know?”

Good to know Noctis has finally stopped kidding himself, though Gladio doesn’t have much room to talk—he fought it for a long time, too, an extra complication on top of an already complicated life. The Amicitias will always stand with the Lucis Caelums through thick and thin, even if Ardyn Izunia himself has returned, but more importantly, Gladio will stick with _Noctis,_ and nothing in the whole of Eos can change that. 

“Well, neither do I, so I guess that makes us even.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are appreciated if you enjoyed. <3
> 
> Come find me over on [Tumblr](http://aliatori.tumblr.com/) or [Twitter](https://twitter.com/AliatoriEra).


End file.
